


The Humungus Is a Reasonable Man

by AngelsInTheSand



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Minor reference to rape, Older Man/Younger Woman, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex, implied impregnation, mention of first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23564527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsInTheSand/pseuds/AngelsInTheSand
Summary: The Lord Humungus protects his people, even if he must protect his people from his people. His kindness is repaid.
Relationships: Lord Humungus/Original Character
Kudos: 11





	The Humungus Is a Reasonable Man

The mortar and pestle between Fig’s feet feels comfortably cool, the aloe leaves inside potent and wet. Settling the mortar between her ankles, she leans forward towards it, her knees comfortably supporting her as she diligently pounds the aloe into a wet paste. As marauders mill beyond the canvas barrier that separates them from Fig, she considers what it would be like to sit in silence forever, grinding aloe in a bowl. Nothing but herself, the potent scent of the plant, and miles and miles of empty wasteland. All herself and a plant. Quiet. Calm. Relaxing.

The impossibility of the idea brings a smile to her lips, the corners of her mouth upturning into a little grin as she imagines all the sounds and smells burning away into the bitter aloe smell. The idea makes her heart skip a beat, returning to its regular rhythm when someone shouts beyond the tent, breaking the daydream. She considers for a moment standing up, pushing back the canvas mouth, and shouting for silence. But it would be in vain, a complete waste of breath and energy. Perhaps if she were taller, maybe more muscle on her arms and legs, with a voice like a booming echo. Then they would listen. But unfortunately, this life has not allotted her those things, and so she continues grinding aloe. 

She stares down into the bowl, her glasses balanced so precariously on the bridge of her nose. For a moment, the lenses fall more than halfway past her eyes, and the tent becomes a blur of earth tones. But only for a moment. Fig pushes the glasses back up her nose, blinking one time, two times, to clear her vision. She sets the pestle aside onto a rabbit’s fur, tawny and soft. Delving her fingers into the bowl, she enjoys the coolness of the aloe as she rubs it onto a burn on her right leg. She winces as the coolness eases the tingling ache on the patch of skin, releasing a quiet breath through her nose.

~~~~~

“Let this be a lesson to you. Do not disobey me. I know what is best for you,”

The Humungus’ words stung, more so than the burn on her leg. His tone so disappointed, like a father chiding a disobedient child. Never had she been allowed to ride pillion, not even during emergency transports. When the opportunity presented itself to her, the reward seemed far sweeter than the consequences. No marauder worth his salt would leave his motorcycle unattended and running. It took all of 10 seconds for Fig to mount the motorcycle, stretch her leg to touch the ground, and press her leg to the exhaust pipe. The angry red pipe was no comparison to the angry red face of the mohawker that stormed towards her. The pipe held no true animosity towards her, like a wounded animal that bites the hand of a stranger assisting it. The pipe did as pipes do, facilitate exhaust, in its fiery, red glow. The mohawker, however, reeked of enmity.

His hands found her first, following her as she slid off the pillion and hit the ground. Her glasses fell loose with her lips, and she could find no words to fashion an apology. The sand beneath her felt almost to push her up towards the man, and she found only pained shouts as the man yanked her up by her shoulder, his fingers angrily dug into the triceps. She found her footing in the sand, grabbing the mans arm and attempting to push him away. His shouts were thunder in her ear as one of his hands found her neck, and a thumb pushing itself into the hollow of her throat. Between breaths, Fig choked and sputtered, shoving at the man as his other hand joined the first one at her neck. Suddenly, there was heat and grit on her back, and Fig was fully aware of the sand beneath her. Terrifyingly, she realized a breathlessness in her, and a weight upon her chest. Knees pressed the remaining air from her lungs as the mohawker bore down upon her, deflating her like a bloated corpse.

Just as suddenly as stars danced before her, Fig finally found her breath. The stars slowly dissipated, and the blackness they lived in became vividly blue. The sky opened up and greeted her with a fresh lungful of air. She forced herself to a seated position, ready to combat another onslaught of dirty hands on her throat. Instead, the fight now continued a few feet away. Blurry figures tussled in the sand, kicking up dust like vehicles racing down the road. Fig blinked many times to clear her vision but found that blinking did not clear her eyes. Reaching up, she found her glasses nowhere around her face, seemingly lost at some point during the fight.

Choking and clearing her throat, Fig found pain coursing down her throat with every breath, every swallow, every choke. It was like swallowing tiny fragments of glass, broken up into a fine powder for her to swallow. As her hand met her throat to calm herself, the tussle nearby subsided, and the victor rose to his feet. The other figure lay on the ground, still as night, and did not rise. The victor strode calmly towards her, and as he became clearer upon his closeness, Fig recognized the fleshy pink legs, and the earthy, black boots. The victor meant her no harm.

“This is why you listen to me. When I instruct you to do something, retain it, “

The Humungus reached towards the sand beside Fig, carefully grabbing something in the sand, and bringing it up to her face. Gently, he rested the bridge of the glasses on her nose and pushed them up so that they came to rest on her face. Terrified, tired eyes stared up at him, and the eyes behind the mask gave an allusion to something Fig could not quite place. Amusement, perhaps. 

Wez kicked at the body of the man that attacked her, furiously shrieking as the Golden Youth tried to pull him back. Fig knew the anger was at having to replace him with something more so or equally as competent and finding capable men in the wasteland was like finding opals.

The Humungus’ voice caught Fig’s attention. It oozed disappointment and slight annoyance, but his eyes, his furrowed eyebrows that hid in the shadows of his mask eyeholes, they never lied.

“Let this be a lesson to you. Do not disobey me. I know what is best for you,”

~~~~~

Fig awoke from her memory as a tall body appeared in the mouth of the tent. Sunlight obscured the details of the form, but Fig knew well enough the form of the Humungus. Aside from that, no other man would have the gall to enter his tent without his direct approval. And the Humungus would never send another man into his tent while Fig was present and alone. 

Fig stood; her legs wobbly like a baby deer’s. Sitting for so long has left her legs asleep, but Fig did her best not to show her discomfort. Her hands jutted forwards, presenting the Humungus with the gift, the bowl of ground aloe paste. He breathed a gentle sigh of content, letting the canvas mouth fall shut behind him, leaving the tent dark and calm. Beyond the canvas, marauders still milled about, loud and crude. Somewhere in the distance, Wez barked orders, and the mohawkers charged to follow his instruction. The remaining marauders continued their routine, whooping at each other like animals calling for each other.

The Humungus strode towards his bed of furs, settling cross-legged on a pillow, utterly and completely tense, and failing to hide it. Fig set the mortar on a smooth rock that acted as perfect a table there could be and got to work unfolding another strip of canvas. She made quick work of it, hanging it from rings in the canvas ceiling, creating a curtain that separated the Humungus’ bed from the mouth of the tent. Fig pulled at the canvas, ensuring its integrity, and slipped behind it, settling on her knees before the Humungus. Quietly, he lit a match and burned the wick of a handmade candle. The candle gave off no smell, but the energy Fig felt from the candle was palpable. Intense, negative energy made Fig’s skin crawl, and a chill surged up her spine, and she knew no animal fat went into the makings of that candle. Perhaps trivially, yes, an animal’s fat was used for the makings of the candle. Only, the fat belonged to an animal on two legs. The thought made Fig squirm, and she ejected it from her mind.

Like an animal, Fig leaned forwards, bearing her pressure into her hands on the Humungus’ thighs. She leaned forward then, bringing one foot up to rest between his legs, extending a hand up to grip his shoulder and balance herself as she brought her other foot to rest beside the other. Carefully, she settled herself into his lap, allowing her feet to rest on opposite sides of his great form. She loved being in his lap, the strength that resonated from him was near tangible. The pure power in him, hidden beneath a layer of civility and conversation, filled her with a sense of pride, as if she possessed his strength. His power aroused her.

He stared down expectantly. In the dark, illuminated only by the disturbing candle, Fig could not see his eyes to read his expression. Somehow, she knew what his hidden expression expected of her. Her hands found his collar, and her fingers deftly searched around it, finally finding the latch, and unhooking it from his neck with a satisfying click. His neck exposed to her; Fig couldn’t help but smile at the contrast of tone. His neck was pale white under the color, quite different from the pink flesh that spent all day under the watchful eye of the sun.

Fig couldn’t contain her giddiness, reaching a hand up and comparing her own skin to the neck of his flesh. Olive and yellow-toned was her hand, darkly complected in comparison to her leader. The language she speaks poetry to him in is foreign to most others. When she writes it, eyebrows cock and sneers surface on their faces. Very few people know her words, and those that do use words that are foreign even to her. “Dialects”, the Humungus calls them. He speaks another language as well, one she can not follow cohesively, but hangs onto the words when he speaks. His other language is gruff and complements his gravelly voice. Her other language makes her throat wetted with phlegm, and makes her feel uniquely, perfectly different from the other marauders. Another man, a perfectly quiet man with hair spun from gold, speaks a language entirely with his hands. The man is owned by Wez, who barely seems to speak English. The Golden Youth has never spoken with his mouth, only with his hands, and reads lips like Fig reads words on a page. What a beautiful mind that must be to have, Fig ponders, silent expression in the palm of your hands. What a wonderful language to understand. But the Humungus appreciates her language as well. There are certain words she can call him by, and he grunts like a contented dog.

"حبيبتى."  
“My love,”

“قلبي”  
“My heart,”

“ربي”  
“My lord,”

Now he grunts in annoyance, and Fig realizes she has spent minutes simply resting her head on his shoulder, analyzing their skin tones. Often lost in thought, Fig knows how she can get lost in her own head, but the Humungus rarely punishes her for this. 

The Humungus is one to ponder for long stretches of time as well. Often, he will sit and consider his memories that Fig does not know, how his life could have turned out so much different. How the world could be so different. But many men think these things, and wonder what they could have done differently. Could have. But didn’t. Useful time spent on useless ponderings. What’s done is done, and all must pay the price, whether they know or not. Fig doesn’t remember the world before this one. All she has ever known is sand and screeching metal. The Humungus wonders if this is a good thing, that she doesn’t have to spend her days wishing and dreaming about the old world. The books she reads are just as much fact as they are fiction to her. I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream has as much factual impact on her as the Encyclopedia Britannica, and perhaps that is how she remains so jovial, so full of life. Ignorance is bliss, and Fig is fueled on elation.

Fig’s hands slide beneath the leather straps of his mask, comfortably slipping the straps from his head, and pulling the mask away from his face. The Humungus’ eyes train on the woman’s face. He is aware of the horrendous mound of flesh that once could be called his face. Now it only serves as a constant reminder of the changes the world has undergone. As the world has changed, so has his face. Fig’s face does not twist in horror. She does not fall back out of his lap and lurch for the mouth of the tent, screaming in fear. Instead, she runs her thumbs over the rough skin, her fingers gently massaging the flesh. Her fingers fall over where his ears once resided, now only mere nubs of flesh. Merely suggestions of what they formerly were.

The first time she had witnessed his true visage, she had tried to hide her discomfort. She had tried so hard, but the devil is in the details, and he saw the devils in her face. Her furrowed brow, the wrinkle in her nose, a little curl of discontent in her lips. Her eyes flashed distress every time she blinked. The face made the Humungus feel like the monster he was made to resemble. Irradiated, fleshy, and oh so disgusted with himself. So much time has passed since then. Fig has become a confidant, an orator to present him to other compound leaders when the Toadie would not suffice. She beams in the sunlight, and the Humungus clips her wings and hides her away, a bird in a cage. But she is stubborn, and will often perch herself on his vehicle, as if she threatens, but never commits to running away. Something about it makes him appreciate her. Always a subtle, unspoken threat to keep him on his toes. The threat always arouses him.

Fig delves her fingers into the nearly forgotten mortar on the rock, smearing the paste into a thin layer across his face. The coolness of the paste causes the Humungus to close his eyes, like a mighty bull yielding to a bird perched upon its back, picking agitating bugs from its hide. But there are no bugs. Only cool aloe calming his flesh and relaxing his skin. His hands find her hips, and he breaths gently. Calm, collected, relaxed. Finally, his shoulders fall from their tense form, and his shoulders finally soften, no longer flexed and angry. A long day in the sun ordering disobedient dogs can bind up a body without any realization. 

“Thank you,”

The first words he has spoken since he appeared in the tent. The first words are of appreciation, and Fig feeds on the kind acknowledgments like a fat tick on the hip of a rabbit. Her lips spread into a wide grin, and she can’t stop the happy squeaking noises that rumble from her throat like a motorcycle sputtering to life. The Humungus’ eyes flicker open, and he examines the smile on her face with a content huff. Fig finishes applying the paste, the bowl now empty, and helps the Humungus refasten the mask back onto his face. This break can’t last forever. Wez would need to be heeled in a short time, or else he would be a mad dog, barking and snapping at every person in his path. The aloe under the mask buffers the chafe the mask causes on his skin, and it soothes a hint of frustration in him. 

He stares down upon Fig, happily sprawled in his lap, like a puppy with a new toy. Her lips are upturned in a coy grin, eyes beaming up at him, as if she expects something, expects some reward in return for her own gift of coolness on skin. How can she expect a reward for something when he already gives so much? He gives her food, shelter, protection from marauders that would strip her, assault her, and leave her for dead. What more could she possibly expect from him? Her further settling into his lap, so that the crotch of her shorts press against his codpiece gives him an answer. She rests her head against his chest, so much smaller and fragile in comparison to his bulk. She is so soft and tender, like meat cooked well over a fire, and just as succulent.

Fig shrieks as large hands wrap around her waist and flip her onto her back, pinning her to the soft fur of some animal long dead. Her cheeks glow rose as the Humungus pins his hips down on her, feeling his codpiece rough and grating against her shorts. He pulls the pillow he was seated on so that it rests under Fig’s hips, angling her up towards him. She uses this time to grab another pillow, pulling it beneath her head and resting it so that her neck is comfortably settled. No use in sex if it’s not comfortable.

The Humungus’ hands find the hem of her shorts and yank them down her legs, one leg hole becoming caught at her ankle, and another yank sends them sailing against the canvas curtain. Fig squirms as one hand finds her cunt, already wet and tender. Fig watches enamored as the Humungus pulls himself out of the leather that encompasses his cock. The Humungus is just as described: humongous. He is bigger than most men she’s seen, and his cock is detailed in fine veins that pulse inside her. His head in a wonderful reddish-purple that weeps pre-cum down the shaft. Fig sits up, reaching for him as if to touch him, but a firm hand grabs her chest and forces her back down to lay. 

She laughs, grabbing his hand and squeezing his wrist, her playful nature so evident at how she lightens the air with her laughter. The Humungus feels a tightness in his stomach, and he melts. Pure laughter is so rare, and yet she seems so full of it. No laughter at violence, at death. Just at the prospect of pleasure, she laughs. The novelty of it almost moves the Humungus to tears, but instead of the display of sentimentality, he decides to indulge another sensibility. He rubs the head of his cock on her cunt, earning a hiccup of excitement from Fig. The excitement between them is always something to be seen, with the Humungus’ massive bulk bearing down on the tiny woman. Every time, Fig questions if he can fit it all into her, and every time, he proves he can. With a smooth thrust, the Humungus buries his cock into her, and his hips comes to rest hotly against her.

The stretch is rarely comfortable for Fig, but they both know its best to get it all done at once, like ripping off a band aid. Fig’s legs shift and squirm as she makes small noises of discomfort, at one point lifting herself off of her pillow with her arms, letting out a slightly pained breath as she attempts to adjust to him.

“Next time, we go at my pace,”

She pouts up at him, trying to look angry. She only comes off as annoyed, and he can’t help but smile behind the mask. After a few more moments of her calming down her breathing, she bears down on him, and he knows she’s finally ready. He grabs both her legs, wrapping them around the back of his neck, and grips her plush hips between his rough, calloused fingers. He pulls out until he can almost see the head of his cock before pushing all the way back in. This earns a squeak of pleasure from Fig, who stares up at him with wide eyes, as if he’s performing some new, exotic act on her. She looks amazed, as if this were the first time he had ever speared her on his cock. 

By now, he had come to expect this, those wild, excited eyes every time he penetrated her. Like taking a virgin every time. Pure excitement, like a novelty for her. The first time he’d taken her, she truly was a virgin, having never been taken by another man. Virgins are few and far between in the wasteland, and having one was not an opportunity to pass up. When he took her the first time, she cried upon penetration, and the Humungus found himself coddling her like a baby. Never since his first beloved had he had such compassion for a lover. But something about the woman, so tender and young and fragile. She was so foreign, so new to his senses, so in-touch with the personality of the old world, he couldn’t bare to hurt her. Breaking from his memory, he loosened his grip on one thigh to grab her hand, forcing it down between her own legs.

“Touch yourself,”

His commands to her were always met with immediate and excited attention when he has her pinned beneath him. Her fingers begin an excited dance upon her cunt, and he grunts approvingly as he begins spearing her again, his cock earning a new squeak of approval from her with every thrust. The only time she is ever fully obedient is when he has her like this, fully engorged inside her. The absolute attention to detail, following instructions as provided, excites him. He suddenly grabs her hips and lifts her towards him, her legs falling from his shoulders and suddenly making their home at his sides. His thrusts become faster, and Fig’s chest rises and falls much faster at the overstimulation too fast.

“I’ll make you listen to me,”

She squirms at his voice, unable to think fully as every inch of him fills her cunt over and over again.

“If you want to misbehave and disobey orders, I’ll just have to teach you,”

His hips rock fast and hard into her, the sound of flesh smacking together must be audible from outside the tent. Fig imagines marauders gathered around, listening, aroused at the thought of her insolence finally being handled with tough hands and a hard dick. All the times she got off easy because she was one of the Humungus’ concubines. All the times she wasn’t punished for offences that could easily have led to tragedy. She finally gets her lesson, speared on a throbbing cock, overstimulated and burning. She finally finds her voice, begging for him to hurry up, begging for release.

“If you want to behave like a bitch, I’ll breed you like one,”

Fig gasps hard and ragged as the Humungus buries himself inside her and pins her down against the furs. Stars explode in her eyes, her eyelids clenched shut as she finally rubs herself to orgasm, her climax only heightened as the Humungus finishes inside her. His cum is hot and seems to keep filling her. For a moment, Fig wonders if he will ever truly finish, and she whimpers as he finally pulls out. The absolute feeling of fullness he leaves her with is enough to have her begging for more, to have it again.

She attempts to sit up but is surprised when he wraps a hand around her ankles, hauling her ass in the air and placing another pillow beneath her hips, her thighs now elevated beyond her head. She doesn’t fight against him, exhausted and out of breath from the encounter. In a herculean act, she reaches out and grabs one of the leather straps across his chest, trying to pull him down to her. He resists.

“You stay just like this. Don’t let my seed come out. You only know how to be obedient when I lay you. Let’s see if you can give me more obedient puppies,”

His voice is as gravelly as ever, but much rougher now that he’s worn out from bedding the disobedient bitch. For a moment, he watches her face, and expects it to twist up into something of anger or sadness or fear, terrified at his presumed anger. Instead, he watches her lips upturn, and she grins with half-lidded eyes peering back at him. The rose blush still engulfs her face, but now her hair is plastered wet to her forehead, and she smiles like she’s won some secret game.

“You seem to think you just proved something. Like you won something or pulled something over on me. I would happily carry your pups whether I was obedient or not,”

The statement elicits another smile, and she snuggles back into her pillow, her breathing becoming much more rhythmic, her chest rising and falling peacefully. She calmly unties her top, which has somehow remained on for the duration of the breeding, unbuttoning two small buttons at the back of her neck, and tossing the white fabric away from herself. Her breasts lay exposed to him, nipples softened now, as she kneads her own breasts calmingly under her palms.

“Most conceptions require a few tries, though. You don’t have to leave me so soon, do you?”

Her voice is almost sad, as if she would cry if he left, enticing him to stay. To bed her for the rest of the day and throughout the night. To let Wez spend the rest of the day barking orders and commands to his men, screaming until the Golden Youth had no choice but to chain him up himself. The Humungus would be a fool to deny himself the treat he so desperately deserved.


End file.
